


The Long Night Moon

by mackiedockie



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Avalanches, Full Moon, M/M, Resistance, Standing Rock, Werewolves, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: Methos and MacLeod have reinvented themselves on their own many, many times over the courses of their wanderings.  Now working together, they are still ironing out a few style differences.  Survival planning for an unstable future can be a tricky business.  Their advantage:  taking the long view in parlous times for themselves and their extended clan comes naturally to both.But when Joe meets a werewolf, plans require revision.  The future may be closer than it appears.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elistaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/gifts).



> My beta is adabsolutely, and she is Wonder Woman. Just saying. All errors are my own.
> 
> Warning: The BTVS fandom makes a quick driveby in this fic, because, werewolves, but it is Highlander to the core. Fandom timeframes may not add up. Methos said he didn't care. Also, a wee mention of politics. Methos just laughed.

The Long Night Moon

 

******1******

 

Methos’ jeep crested Boulder Pass under a peak with the ill-fated name of Mount Custer. Bowman Lake stretched out far below, grass crisping in the meadows as the frost settled in the twilight under a waxing October moon. Kintla Lake lay in the canyon behind, glittering in the last rays of the setting sun. Alpine spruce and lodgepole pine feathered the steep mountainsides in both valleys, untouched by modern saws. Methos felt a distant kinship with the limber pines ringing the timberline above the road--elder trees, gripping the rock for thousands of years.

Tourists driving over the summit could be lost in the vistas before them, but Methos focused on a gap in the dark firs to the right. Angling the Jeep into the ditch and up the other side, he crested over onto a hidden mining road. He paused only long enough to get out and kick dirt and snow over his tire tracks and to open a carefully concealed gate. Moats, he reflected sadly, weren’t what they used to be.

There was a distant canine howl as Methos relocked the gate. “Ah, the children of the night.” Methos scanned the ridge above and the valley below. “MacLeod, what rural hell have you sentenced us to this decade?” he asked the wind. The wind didn’t answer.

MacLeod’s mining claim was on an inholding, and lay in an unmarked area on the maps between Waterton, Glacier, and a pocket of surviving First Nations lands. The mine’s gold veins had petered out long ago. The property was traded from goldhound to grifter until MacLeod picked it up at auction, merrily outbidding some rather nettled cobalt and molybdenum strip mine speculators in the process.

Various signs marked the trail with increasingly dire warnings-- _Private Property, Oro Rico Mine Employees Only, Keep Out, This Property Protected by the Second Amendment._ Methos’ favorite: _Danger! Unmarked Mine Shafts--Trespassers May Plummet At Their Own Risk._ He had been dubious about rebuilding the mine from the start, but since MacLeod had thrown himself into the project, it had been one year, three months and five days since either of them had been challenged. Methos was considering changing the name of the mine to the _New Caledonian Miracle_.

After a mile skirting the steep drops on the rocky ridgeline, the road widened onto an open flat that had been graded out of the main tailings pile. At the locked entrance to the adit and shafts, a tall headframe and hoist of weathered crosscut beams angled out of the face of the ridge. It loomed over an old two story bunkhouse, wood siding gone grey with age, roof angles sagging from too many winter snows. On first glance it looked like it was about to collapse. 

First glances were meant to deceive. A windmill turned gamely in the breeze on the top of the steel-reinforced hoist, alternately pulling water from a freshwater spring and a deep geothermal well. Camouflaged solar cells on the ridge above the boarded-up mine were brushed free of snow. Smoke curled out of the chimney on the bunkhouse rooftree. MacLeod’s new dwelling place. Methos’ new home. He knocked the snow from the treads of his boots and entered, tasting MacLeod’s presence within.

The bunkhouse interior had been completely rebuilt. MacLeod’s touch was everywhere, blending high tech with low impact or locally sourced materials. The cabin smelled like sawn spruce and cedar oil. The first floor had been smoothed and sanded and polished, walls knocked down to form a great room on the first floor. The room decor was still cheerfully random, scattered with their favorite desks and the sofa and dining table and chairs that had not quite decided where they belonged.

MacLeod definitely belonged. He stood by the sliding door leading to the deck, surveying the land beyond like a laird. “I think the wind knocked the satlink out of the tree last night. Our security cams went out, too. We’ll have to climb up and fix it.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’, clan chief? I’ll toss you up the tools.” Methos paused in the entry hall long enough to kick off his boots and slide on some heavy socks. “Another storm is right behind me,” he called out, as MacLeod fetched an armful of hardwood kindling from the deck. “It’s only October. There should be pumpkins, mead, and warm, flickering, wicker men.” He stalked into the main room and planted himself in front of the old school Vermont Castings wood stove, curling his toes in the thick antique fur rug.

“Just wait until the December blizzards. We’ll have to shovel the deck just to get to the woodshed!” MacLeod sounded unreasonably cheerful at the prospect as he replenished the woodbox. Methos smelled applewood, trimmed deadfall from a downriver orchard.

Methos had insisted on a hearth, though geothermal plumbing heated the floors. Solar was admirable, windmills quite acceptable, but when storms gathered, Methos gravitated to Fornax, goddess of hearth and oven. “Do you realize there is more snow out there now than Seacouver gets in an entire winter? Even the coyotes object. I could hear them howling from the summit.”

“More likely the Chief Mountain pack of grey wolves you heard, not coyotes. Or maybe a new pack is forming. This is well west of Chief territory.” MacLeod sat down to fiddle with his computer at the massive carved dining table, surrounded by blueprints. “The coyotes follow the flocks of sheep down to the river valleys in September.”

“I bow to your native affinity to greater sheep culture. But if those were wolves, they need some choir practice. The wolves from my youth sounded far sweeter.” 

Methos hadn’t chosen to live cheek by jowl with wolves for some centuries. The valleys could be comfortable--they bred cities. With beds. And bars. Hops. Barley. Lamb chops. “The coyotes are smarter than we are. The nearest beer store is thirty miles away and three thousand feet down.”

“I suspect you’d know.” MacLeod wasn’t really listening. His total concentration focused on the view through the massive picture window. The waxing gibbous moon rose in the east through Boulder Pass, lighting the distant face of Chief Mountain, its iconic escarpment slowly enveloped by the scudding clouds and flurries blowing in from the west. 

“Are you packed, yet?” Methos finally intruded, as MacLeod sighed and turned back to his computer. “That storm is going to blow our convoy all the way to Turtle Island. I’m going to be a corpsicle by the time we get back from your pipeline wars,” Methos predicted. “I vote we stop colonizing the wild west for the winter and and go to Bali. It’s fifty degrees warmer.”

“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” MacLeod toyed with the keyboard to his laptop, thoughtfully lapsing into rhetoric. “At our age, in our skin, in these times? Bali might not want us.”

“I’ll have you know that I maintain excellent relations with Bali and many cousin islands,” Methos declaimed. “The more ports in a storm, the better. The portents are grim.”

“The storm is, indeed, coming,” MacLeod acknowledged. “Speaking of portents, did you know there are three supermoons this fall? In just a few days this month, then again in November and December!” MacLeod scrolled through his archived newsfeed. “We should put skylights in the bedroom upstairs.”

“I believe the current correct term for a close orbit full or new moon is ‘perigee’, MacLeod. Use the words Copernicus gave you. Or better, call them by the real names skywatchers have used for millennia--Harvest Moon. Hunter’s Moon. Frosty Moon. Supermoons are for astrologers and clickbait addicts,” Methos said with some asperity. “You do realize those sidebar sites are full of malware to designed to vacuum your data? Science is dying. Journalism has had last rites. The WayBack Archive is moving to Canada.” Methos paused for breath, and caught the amused glint in MacLeod’s eye. “And you’re just letting me rant to humor me now, aren’t you?”

“I’m learning the advantages of being easily amused. And I did install Tor. But if there are any real journalists reporting out there in the wilderness, you’ll have to bookmark them for me,” MacLeod closed the laptop gently, with a faraway look in his eye. “Little Deer used to call the Frosty Moon in December the Long Night Moon.”

Methos gave MacLeod space to reminisce, then guided them back to business. “Still no mainstream reports on the gathering in the Dakotas on any of our usual email dead drops. But my twitter feed was jumping.” 

"Speaking of journalistic refuges," MacLeod said with a sad smile. "With the satlink down, I’ll have to climb the ridge to get cell reception for new downloads.”

“I vote that we stay dark, from now on. Turn off location pings on all the devices and go early. The Peterbilt is ready right now for the run east.” 

“The convoy leaves in three days.” 

“We’ll travel more quickly alone. We can drive at night under your Supermoon. Bonus, we’ll get back early, too, and we can spend the next perigee harassing Joe for Thanksgiving.”

“In tropical Seacouver?” MacLeod needled.

“Hey, I’ll take all the extra Fahrenheits I can get. Besides, Joe will need an update for the Watchers by then if he wants to keep the retirement bean counters at bay.”

“We could call him from the camps.” But MacLeod was beginning to share his unease. Too many drones. Too many FBI taps. Too many insecure networks.

“Tor notwithstanding, it’s safer to speak in person, these days,” Methos checked his cell phone. Still off. He slid it into the charger and leaned against the sofa, nudging it a little closer to the fire.

MacLeod looked troubled, but didn’t disagree. “We’ll fix the secure satlink when we get back. Button the cabin up tomorrow and be gone by sunset.”

“What shall we do with all that time we don’t spend on the internet tonight?” Methos wondered, glancing meaningfully at the spruce-hewn stairs to the bedroom.

“Read?” MacLeod said innocently, and waved at the library that packed the north wall, filling every space under, and above, and between steps leading to the master bedroom. The library was Methos’ addition to the decor, along with Mac’s sofa, which he not so secretly regarded as his.

“Read. So much for foreplay,” Methos muttered under his breath. He loved his books, but not in that way. He looked askance at the construction plans scattered across the dining table. “You’ve already ordered the skylights, haven’t you?” he asked with long suffering resignation. “We do _not_ need any more change orders on the roofing this close to winter. Particularly of the variety that leak when it rains.”

“Snows. When it snows.” MacLeod reminded. “We’ll surround them with more solar panels to prevent ice dams. Besides, the local solar startup needs the work. It builds good will with the locals. And they’re discreet.”

“Lack of a business license and a building permit will breed discretion,” Methos agreed. “Someday, someone will ask why you listed a solar installer as a “mining design consultant” on your Federal forms.”

MacLeod waved the warning off airily, raised from a babe in Scotland in finding creative ways of evading petty bureaucrats and unfair tithes. “Contract labor, all covered under the 1872 Mining Act requirement to improve the mine,” MacLeod said virtuously.

“Word is spreading about your scheme to block the strip mine. Some of the county commissioners will get restless.” Methos and MacLeod agreed on most issues, but often diverged on strategy and tactics. It kept life interesting. “The lawyers will be in clover for years if we don’t make their election fundraisers happy.”

“Bribery, legal or not, breeds corruption.” MacLeod said, not for the first time. It was more a mantra than an argument.

“I’m on board with the ethical theory.” Methos could not count the bribes he had paid over the millennia. In the historical circles he usually ran, ethics, theory and practice coincided about three times in a century, rarely enough to throw a party. 

“Coltec once told me that wendigos were returning, Methos. Hungry. Rapacious. Cannibals of unending greed. But not in this time. Not in this place. We lost Coltec’s voice, but we can try to recapture his wisdom.”

“Not in this time, not in this place. The battlecry of the new climate survivalists. First Mount Custer, then the Columbia. We’ll carry the standard all the way to Turtle Island!”

“I could drive alone. You could work the long term camp logistics from Seacouver,” MacLeod offered in stoic fairness. 

“What, I don’t rate a St. Crispin’s Day speech?” Methos asked. “ ‘We few, we happy few…’ ”

“St. Crispin’s is ten days, yet,” MacLeod pointed out. “I’ll light a candle for you and stick it on some pemmican.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Methos wasn’t seriously prodding. He knew MacLeod’s heart was sorely drawn to Little Deer’s people and the ignition of their movement. “If I’m going to live another thousand years, I don’t want to spend it surviving total ecowar. We’ll make a stand now while it’s still a skirmish line.” 

He joined MacLeod at the window, looking down at the braiding streams flowing west. The rains (and snows) that fell on their ridge would eventually mingle with waters from James Coltec’s sacred springs. He understood MacLeod’s urge to protect the headwaters. There were quiet times when even he could feel the surviving twinge of the holy places of the Hayoka that came before. 

“Speaking of bribes, after the election we need to lobby to change the name of that mountain on the maps,” MacLeod declared with a touch of healthy self-mockery. “ ‘Mount Custer’ has to go.” MacLeod’s mood shifted as he rolled up the cabin plans and cleared the table. “What did Joe say? Is he coming along to witness for the chronicles at Turtle Island? I’ve got the best ground floor motel rooms marked on the route, and maybe even a yurt.”

Methos turned away from the question and ducked his head into the refrigerator, pretending to study the beer and provisions while considering his answer. “Joe says maybe next run,” he prevaricated, only a little. “Business is down, taxes are up, I think he’s making one last stab at turning it around. He’ll be ready for a break soon.”

MacLeod eased up behind him, resting the tip of his chin on Methos’ shoulder. “He’s hurting?” Together, they solemnly stared holes in the side of the case of organic IPA that filled the top shelf. “Back? Or hip?”

“Simplistically, joint damage in both, baked in from favoring the legs for years, aggravated by inflammation everywhere when he works too long. In other words, nothing new.” 

“He needs the music. The music needs him. It keeps him going,” MacLeod said softly in Methos’ ear, his hand on Methos' shoulder, kneading out the knots of the long drive and worry. “Behind his back, you call him a bard.” 

“Bards are in disrepute, these dark days. Holding the bar together to shelter the stage is slowly taking him down,” Methos said, as the chill from the refrigerator sunk into his frame.

“We can build a guest cabin. You will, however, refrain from calling it a ‘granny flat’, or he will shoot you.” MacLeod rattled on with the full gravity of belief of a clan chief. “And we’ll make a real improvement on the mine, and widen the first gallery and make it a recording studio.”

“Now that will impress the mining inspectors,” Methos said.

“We’ll attract musicians from the Yukon to San Allende,” MacLeod fantasized. “From Paris to Bali! Joe will influence bards for generations to come.”

“Time will tell, you raving Scot. Joe may have made other plans. Besides, this century is nearly blind and deaf to bards. Autotune is the ultimate evil.”

Methos said the last with such gloom that MacLeod wrapped one arm around him and deftly plucked a couple of bottles from the case. “Close the refrigerator. You’ll turn into a corpsicle.” Leading the way to the hearth, he added a frosted limb of seasoned applewood to the crackling fire. They breathed in the woody incense and drank in companionable silence, leaning against the sofa on the soft warm fur of the rug.

“There’s a draft coming from the sliding door,” Methos roused and complained as he put his empty bottle aside. “Joe and I refuse to spend the coming winter huddling, real or metaphorical storms notwithstanding.”

“Nice of you to channel Joe’s opinion for him. I’ll have it fixed when they put in the skylights,” MacLeod promised, draping himself over Methos, his roaming hands stroking from throat to thigh. “As an emergency measure, shall we experiment with huddling together? Purely in the interests of science?”

Later, as the logs burned down and settled in the glowing stove, several experiments ensued. For science.

 

******2******

 

It was a full on full Hunter’s moon on a cold mid-November night. Joe chased the last of his late night crowd out of the bar after last call, grimacing as he locked the door. The waitress and barman finished up early, leaving just Joe and the new guy in the band. Joe kept an eye on the newly recruited sideman as unasked he wrapped up the cords and swept the stage. Joe appreciated the gesture. His legs hurt.

After hours at Joe’s could be a lonely and boring place when Methos and MacLeod were both out of town. More now that audiences were down, and business was off. The band had to work harder to fill the dance floor. People seemed to be hunkering down after the election fallout. Joe felt like hunkering, too. 

As Joe finished up the bank, he could hear a couple of his over-amped patrons howling at the moon in the parking lot. In retrospect, Joe thought, closing the set with the Warren Zevon cover might have been a bad idea, even though it had generated some of the best energy of the night. That made the post-concert letdown into nightly bar chores even harder to grind through.

It was well past time to back off and hire a full time night manager, too, though the math gave Joe a headache on top of the gnawing of joint mice. Logic (and the bottom line) dictated he should throw in the bar towel.

Logic was just a further pain in the ass. 

He nodded his appreciation to the new sideman, handing him his check and an additional hundred in cash. Something Oz. Or Oz something. He had been a last minute journeyman replacement recommended by the Rodeo Kings when one of his regulars suddenly came down with a terminal case of marriage and a real job. 

“The cash is not in the contract,” Oz said, warily eyeing the bills.

“For filling in with short notice, and all the help on setup and breakdown,” Joe explained. “I noticed the extra mile. Nice job tonight, man. You listen well. You more than earned it.”

“Thank you,” Oz said with cautious courtesy. “The opportunity is very much appreciated. I don’t want to take advantage.” The wariness in his eyes faded, but his gaze remained uncomfortably watchful. 

“You are welcome,” Joe returned, matching the formality, feeling a bit silly about it after spending most of the evening with the man twining intimate chords and making room for new riffs as if they’d played together for months. Still, the ritual seemed to relax the sideman. Everyone came down from music in a different way, Joe mused.

As he made his way to the office to lock up the bank, Joe's shoes stuck to a drying puddle on the checkerboard floor. So did the tip of his cane. "I have to rethink the Supermoon Special," Joe groused. “The cleaning crew will have to mop twice.”

"Jaegermeister bad," the new guy nodded sagely. 

"You got that right, kid," Joe laughed, relieved at the spark of humor. "Speaking of Jaeger and other weapons of mass consumption, you want a shift beer or anything from the bar before we blow this pop stand? Something to eat?"

Oz shook his head, grinning. "I never drink on the full moon. Makes me break out." His teeth gleamed in the stage lights. "I've got a stash of organics and herbs back at the motel. Goji berries. Like that."

"Too much information," Joe shook his head. Musicians came in all flavors. Still, as organic sidemen went, Oz was tending toward nearly normal. “Zevon is in your wheelhouse. Sharp breaks, smooth changes. I’d like to hear your originals.”

"I can come in early, tomorrow," Oz said quietly. "That means something, coming from you."

"Coming from me?" Joe asked, puzzled.

"Word has it, you're a man who holds to some solid standards. Disciplined."

"Huh. Amazing what some people will say. But it means something, coming from you, too.” He cocked his head and considered Oz as he moved around the stage. “Kids with your skills are usually touring with their own band.”

“Kids these days,” Oz laughed silently. “It turned out the band liked to eat regularly. So did I. Better not to eat the band.” Oz wrapped up the last loose sound cable and stacked it in the milk crate. “The Spotify generation is hard on startups. I’m lucky to pick up work by word of mouth.” 

"I’m lucky you showed at the last minute. You sticking around town for awhile? We'll be rehearsing some new pieces this week," Joe offered, surprising himself. He'd sworn off apprenticing ever since Byron took down young Mike in Paris. 

Oz stilled. "I don't have plans," he allowed, cocking his head and meeting Joe’s eyes. But then he looked away. "I don't make plans. Historically, I don’t stay in one place for long."

Apparently, Oz had sworn off a few things, too. Joe nodded brusquely, reining any disappointment from his voice. "History is long, bar gigs are short. Give it overnight. If you change your mind, give me a call."

"Don't get me wrong, Joe. I will think about it. It's the best offer I've had in a long time.”

"Don't overthink," Joe teased. "It's a cheap gig with a house band. Not a marriage certificate."

“Will my guitar be safe here overnight? I feel a midnight walk in the moonlight coming on.”

“As safe as mine,” Joe promised, touched by the trust. Not a marriage certificate, but as close as most musicians allowed. “We’ll put them both in the office. Call me if you need it sooner than noon tomorrow, or need a place to crash,” he added, giving up his personal cell number. Unlocking his office, he ushered Oz in. “Welcome to the sanctum sanctorum.”

That got a grin out of the young man, which disappeared immediately as another chorus of howls echoed from down the alley behind the bar. “Sounds like my cue to head out,” Oz said, stowing both guitars safely out from underfoot. “Call of the wild.”

"They keep that up, the cops will come down on the bar for disturbing the peace after hours," Joe muttered. 

There was another high pitched crying yip, from near the alley. Closer, louder, with an ugly quaver at the high end. 

Joe noted a small tremor that snapped Oz alert, nose flaring. Almost like an Immortal's radar check. “Friends of yours?”

“The only friend I have in town is you,” Oz confessed. “More like...old and unclose acquaintances.”

“Not another one,” Joe muttered to himself. Oz didn’t _feel_ immortal. Complex, maybe, but not aged.

"Another one what?" Oz kept his eyes on the fire door leading to the alley.

"Never mind." Joe shook his head. He used to be more careful. "I'll roust the midnight serenade," Joe said, glancing sideways at Oz. “You can go out the front and head the other way.” Couldn't be Immortal. Absolutely no place to keep a sword or any other weapon in those jeans and chambray shirt.

"No, Joe," Oz said confidently as he opened the fire door. "I can take care of myself."

Charlie DeSalvo had said the same thing, Joe thought to himself, and his ghost had never stopped hovering over that alley. Creaky, over sixty and looking over the brink of retirement, this was still his place, run by his rules. He pulled his gun out from the lockbox under the register and headed for the alley exit. 

He may have slowed down some. Truth to tell himself, a lot. But the hell if he was going to let the kid go out there alone after hearing that last eldritch scream. Old Watchers were a dime a dozen. Solid sidemen, on the other hand, were pure gold.

 

******3****** 

 

The donnybrook in the alley didn’t last long, and there wasn’t much to see, especially from Joe’s point of view. Particularly from his point of view, as someone had busted all the alley lights and the streetlight on the corner. He halted at the alley corner to let his eyes adjust to the moonlit street. Less than half a block away, he could just make out Oz surrounded by three faux hipsters with shaggy coats and shiny white teeth. Gangs in Seacouver had evolved in recent years. Or devolved.

Determined to reduce the odds, Joe braced himself against the corner of the alley, gun ready to draw, cell ready to record or call 911. He didn’t want to shoot anyone by accident, just for having poor manners and a bad sense of fashion. One of the young yahoos must have heard the scrape of his cane, or the scuff of his shoes. He turned, jumpy and twitching on bare feet. Bare feet, in November. That spoke to a certain altered state. Then all three turned, as one. They growled. It wasn't a nice growl.

Oz growled back. Deeper, harsher, louder. 

That can’t be good, Joe thought, as their features melted in the moonshadows. Before he could keystroke 911, one of the shadows broke away from the pack and launched at him. Air rushed from his lungs and he cracked back against the alley wall. 

My, what teeth, Joe thought, adrenaline spiking. Fending with his left arm, he tried to draw his gun with his right. Teeth fastened on his forearm. Joe was nearly blind in the dark, but smell and sound and the feel of loose, stringy hair told him that this was one ugly mugger.

The mugger was chewing, hard, and that was more than ugly. Something tore when Joe tried to pull away. He gave up on the quick draw and just shot through his coat, a bad habit he’d picked up from Methos that had played hob on his rain gear. He aimed low, hoping to hit a foot or leg, something nonlethal. With a yip, his attacker shied back, and Joe yanked free. Bracing for another attack, Joe could only hear the keratinous sound of long bare toenails clicking on the concrete as his assailant ran away. 

Refilling his lungs, Joe took stock, flinching only a little when Oz suddenly loomed out of the darkness. He refrained from making any more holes in his pocket. 

“They’re gone,” Oz said. “They didn’t expect resistance.”

“You’ve got a helluva range in that howl. Next time, you do the Zevon vocals,” Joe observed Oz had strangely also lost his shoes somewhere in the scuffle. “Who the hell runs around barefoot in the middle of the night in November? Did you say you know these guys? Freakiest muggers ever,” he ran on, then focused. “Oz, you okay?”

Oz was staring at Joe’s torn coat. “We’d better get back into the bar and clean that up. We’ll see if you need stitches.”

“We’ll see if I need whisky,” Joe corrected, wincing as he flexed his wrist and fingers. They still moved. He was fine. “That was a guy, right, not an attack dog? I’ll be pissed if I need to get a rabies shot,” Joe complained as Oz hauled him to his feet.

“If it broke the skin,” Oz said, tense as he hustled Joe back into the bar and locked the door, “we’ll douse it with all the whisky you can stand. It’ll kill more than germs.”

“Damn skippy,” Joe agreed, pointing firmly at the bottom shelf Irish, for luck. “Inside and out. The other first aid kit is under the bar. But it’s just a scratch. Stop worrying, Oz. Trust me, I’ve hurt myself worse playing snooker.”

Oz unceremoniously stripped off Joe’s coat and peeled back his shirt, the sleeve already spotted with leaking blood. Wordlessly, he poured a good three shots of the bottle of workingman’s Irish on a welling puncture marked by an inch long triangular tear.

“Ow! Hey, Dr. Oz, give me that!” Joe objected, snagging the bottle for a swig before pouring a more judicious jigger on the wound. “See, not so bad.”

Oz turned his hand over to reveal a second, deeper wound in the muscle just above his Watcher tattoo. “Nice tat. Variant on the fleur de lis? Egyptian?”

Joe flexed his fingers, considered a lie, then temporized with most of the truth. “Mesopotamian. The tattooist said it symbolized the Tree of Life, but I heard later was copied from an old beer urn.”

“Cool.” Oz said, taking the prehistory in stride. “Don’t want it to get infected and wreck the art.” More medicinal Irish was applied. 

“Well, hell, stitches it is, I guess. It’ll wait til morning.” Joe sighed. “Still not as dangerous as snooker on the south side.”

“My thoughts exactly, until my shoes came off and I started howling at the moon.” Dr. Oz squeezed a little more blood from the wounds before sealing them with a line of butterfly bandages. “Your coat took most of the saliva. There’s a chance we caught the virus in time.”

“Virus?” Joe echoed, a bit more alarmed. More Irish was definitely called for. “What kind of virus are we talking, here?”

“A rare cynanthropic virus that attacks and modifies DNA in the gene structure. I’ve been doing research in gene splices triggered by viruses, and how to mitigate the mutation effects.”

Joe refrained from scoffing. Barely. Nearly normal sidemen were already rare, but a closet gene therapist added a new wrinkle. “Is that your day job?”

Oz grimaced. “No. Hobby. The patents are all locked up. Have you heard of Wolfram and Hart?” 

“I’ve run across the name.” The Watchers’ shell corporation funded operations with long term investments worldwide. “Dark money, multinational investments, pharmaceuticals, antigeria spas, strip mining, weird faith-based colleges, weirder clients…” Joe stopped when he saw Oz take one step back. “Hey, I worked for an international asset company when I was young and dumb. Try not to hold it against me.”

Oz stopped retreating. “One of the guys who attacked you stunk of Wolfram grade sulfur. So does his car. I stole his keys.”

Joe assumed sulfur was a new millennial metaphor. Still, the guy in the alley had indeed stunk. “We’ll search it later. But I have a hard time believing a portfolio from my old investment company sicced an infected dog on me.”

“Joe, you have to take this seriously. We have to talk.” 

“Relax, Oz. We won the battle. Well, you did, anyway,” he grinned. “Enjoy the thrill of victory. It’s rare enough, these days. I’ll get a tetanus shot tomorrow.”

“Joe, there are powers in the world, things you wouldn’t believe. There’s a whole secret organization out there watching out for growing evil in the world. There’s some things that shouldn’t live, and some people that don’t die.”

“No shit? People that don’t die? Secret watchers in the night?” Joe lifted an eyebrow, impressed by Oz’s sober and serious demeanor. He leaned across the bar, nabbed a new bottle. Top shelf. “I’m a good listener. Tell me more.”

 

******4******

 

Methos wandered into Joe’s Bar through the loading dock door well before opening, brushing cold December rain drops from the shoulders of his overcoat. The day cleanup crew was gone, and the night shift didn't report until 5:00pm. The liquor was fully stocked. This was his favorite time for baiting Joe with hints of MacLeod’s adventures, sprinkled with little fibs of his own, and a couple of wildly outrageous lies for healthy fibre. 

Moreover, after two months camping in a crowded and drafty tent, he felt an urgent need to wrap himself around a cold beer in a warm bar. He felt cheated when he didn’t get to surprise Joe as he was setting up. Sam the backup bartender had caught the opening shift. Tall and lugubrious, Sam wasn't a Watcher, but he knew Joe had a second job. His best feature was his incuriosity. That made him relatively safe to question, but not exactly a streaming font of information. Mostly harmless, as it were.

Sam put a beer on the bar, unasked. Methos admired efficiency. It was Sam's finest trait. "So, where's Joe?"

"Fishing, he claimed,” Sam said. “Or playing some cowboy dives up in the hills with that new sideman. Truth be told, I don’t remember where. He said he'd be on vacation for awhile."

“When did he leave?” Joe, sneaking a vacation--that was unprecedented.

Sam carefully wiped the bar, hesitating. "He left what, a few weeks ago? Before Thanksgiving."

"He's been gone a month?" Methos asked, sitting up a little straighter. Four weeks before that, he and Duncan had gone east and off the grid with the water protectors. They had been out of touch with their watcher for nearly two months.

Sam nodded, a bit more mournful than usual, Methos thought. "Since that accident in the alley. He said he couldn't get the stitches wet, so he took some time off working the bar, and decided to add in some vacation."

"Stitches? He had stitches?" Methos was insulted. Joe was sneaking about behind his back getting stitches? Doctors nowadays couldn't even handle a proper leeching. "You'd better tell me in small, quick words what happened. What’s wrong with Joe?"

"Nothing! Really!" Sam replied quickly, backing off. "Dogfight! Joe got between a couple of strays in the alley, is all. Knocked down, scratched his arm, bruised his pride. He wasn’t badly hurt, just cranky. Honest.”

Small, quick words. Very efficient. Methos finished his beer, and pulled out his cell, tapping Joe’s icon on speed dial. It went almost immediately to voicemail. Again.

“Must still be off grid,” Sam said helpfully. “He didn’t even text me to remind everyone to submit their timecards. The bookkeeper had to do it.”

Not exactly proof of skullduggery, but telling, given Joe’s work habits. "If you hear from him before I do, tell Joe to call me."

"Uh, one thing," Sam reluctantly interrupted. "He left a box for you in his office. No one else. Just you."

"Me, not MacLeod?"

"Especially not Mr. MacLeod," Sam said with utmost respect.

"What's in the box?"

Sam backed off, his hands lifted in placation. "I have no idea. Honest," he repeated.

Methos left that possible prevarication smouldering on the back burner. Joe had given him the office key years before, the third (or was it fourth?) time he found Methos had picked the lock to sleep on the couch. He said it was to save wear and tear on the tumblers, but Methos recognized tent hospitality in all its forms.

The office was now almost empty--papers were filed, books shelved all too neatly. Joe still used the Shakespeare and Company variant on Dewey, even though Methos had often explained the superiority of the Alexandrian system.

There was a fair-sized unmarked box sitting square on top of the desk. Methos switched on the lamp, unceremoniously ripped off the packing tape, and looked in the box. Argent gleamed in the lamplight, silver-chased treasures from the depths of a Watcher weapons museum. A polished and sharpened silver inlaid kukri. A silver-plated Colt six-gun, with silver tipped bullets nosing from the cylinder. A small crossbow, with a dozen priceless antique silver bolts.

There were three books. _Therianthropy Through the Ages. Gene Therapy Viral Vectors Explained._ And a third, well-thumbed journal in Joe’s handwriting labeled _Akkadian Demon Lore, some notes._ A calendar, with the next full moon circled. Tonight's moon. And a note in Joe's strong, plain cursive.

_“Adam--something weird happened just after you and Duncan left. Well, weirder than normal. I’m following up news of a possible barbarum sighting. Or maybe I should just say biting. I didn’t see jack. I’ll find out next month, for sure.”_

Even while Adam admired Joe’s circumspect usage, he muttered a Sumerian ward against bad luck and demons. Therianthropy--that was just a fancy new twentieth century word for shapeshifter. ‘Barbarum’, on the other hand, was a very, very, old Akkadian word representing the wolf, or wolfish men.

_"It’s probably just a false alarm. The problem is, this guy with the overbite had a map that he shouldn’t have had stashed in his car. I’m going to check it out. It will give me an opportunity to snoop around the new place while you’re gone. Just like a real Watcher, again, right? Except both you and MacLeod slipped me backup keys months ago. Seemed like cheating, so until now, I figured I’d wait for an invitation. Now I figure I’d better make sure you don’t have any unwanted houseguests._

_“Chances are, we’ll all have a good laugh when you get back, but if shit happens, you’ll have some warning and a few tools for the job. I can count on you to plan for the worst, and play it by ear from there._

_“I understand if you prefer to catch the redeye to parts elsewhere--just don’t let Mac get ambushed. And don’t show him this note. That would be too damn embarrassing for all of us."_

The second, creased sheet of paper was a mineral map of the wilderness west of Glacier, including the Oro Rico inholding that surrounded MacLeod’s new mountain hideout. The cabin was accurately marked by an old-fashioned ‘X’ near the head of a long watershed that stretched west into Kintla Lake. Methos tapped the box,thinking, then pulled out the old Colt and slid it into the inner pocket of his overcoat. Then he pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial.

“MacLeod, how about we wrap up business down here in the tropics and go up and check on the cabin? I have a yearning for the great outdoors. We’ll go ice fishing. Split some wood. Commune with nature. Huddle like Celtic barbarians around the fire and tell stories against the cold and haunted mysteries of the night.” 

“Who is this, and where have you put Methos?” MacLeod demanded, laughing. “I thought you had enough of camping out back at the Turtle Island stand.”

“Just channelling my inner Highlander.” Hearing the easy warmth in MacLeod’s voice, Methos relaxed a few iotas, and allowed a twitch of a smile. “I’m still waiting for my firehose merit badge. Or you could lend me yours, Scout boy.”

“That’s Scoutmaster to you,” MacLeod teased. “Pack your anorak again. The rain down here translates to snow in the passes. We may have to ski in from the gate, if it gets too deep.”

“Then I’d better channel my inner Finlander, instead.” Methos paused, and considered his next words. “I’m hoping Joe might join us for the holidays. You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

“No, still going to voicemail. I figured we’d drop in tonight and catch him up on news. You haven’t tracked him down for a free beer yet?”

“Not precisely. But he left a hell of a breadcrumb trail.” Methos hesitated. Their recent activities back in the Dakotas could have drawn unwanted attention, and he was getting a lot more leery about the overall security of all cell phones. “MacLeod, when Joe writes a note that says “...it’s probably just a false alarm...”

“It probably isn’t,” MacLeod answered immediately. “Timeframe.”

“If you‘re done with the banking transfers, we’ll check out all the usual suspects who might know where he is,” Methos said. “Meet me at the bar, and we can divide the list.”

But the usual suspects were clueless, out of town, or, in a remarkable number of instances, deceased. Apparently, just knowing Joe tended to be a long term health hazard.

They rallied in the privacy of MacLeod’s secondhand Tacoma truck, so generic in the intermountain west it was practically invisible. They’d traded for it after the Peterbilt met an unfortunate accident while counting coup on a bridge in South Dakota. 

Methos sat with Joe’s box in the shotgun seat. “Everyone has been very helpful. Joe, however, was a bit vague with everyone. He went north, west, or south, on vacation, or on tour. Some say alone, some say with a new musician. His winter gear bag, travel chair, guitar and car are gone.”

“And his wallet, laptop and phone. So, an absence with some forethought, not an abrupt abduction. I think it’s time you showed me what’s in the box, Methos,” MacLeod said reasonably.

Methos nodded. He pulled Joe’s note out of the box and set it on the dashboard. “Oops. How clumsy of me. Joe didn’t want you to see that. Don’t tell him.”

“He probably already knows. He learned a lot of sneaky from you. And it sounds like he’s worried enough to make sure we stick together.” 

MacLeod read the note twice, glanced at the map, and frowned. He pawed through the box, touching each item, with the exception of the journal on demon lore. MacLeod connected the dots in a different pattern, but jumped to the same key conclusion. “Joe was attacked by shapeshifters. Barbarum. Werewolves.” 

In the close quarters of the truck, Methos could feel MacLeod’s muscles tense into wary combat readiness. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in the Akkadian lore,” he said quietly. “Ahriman is gone. So are his avatars.”

MacLeod gazed out into the distance. “Not all of them. One survives. Didn’t Joe ever tell you, the beast tried to conscript him? That he reshaped him?” 

Now Methos felt his neck hairs prickle. “No. He did not tell me that tale.”

“He almost didn’t tell me. For one terrifying, exquisite, hellish minute, Joe had legs, and knees, and feet again. And then he did not. He resisted Ahriman’s will, heart intact.”

Methos didn’t gaze into the distance. He closed his eyes and took a short, sharp look into himself. “It is a very good thing that Joe was there to counsel you, in that battle, MacLeod. Maybe I was a demon once. I don’t know if I would pass a demon’s test.”

“No,” MacLeod agreed, too easily. Then he grinned and turned, and playfully shoved Methos to break the gloom. “You’d rip the test in half and behead the demon. And shoot it with that gun you have in your pocket just for style points. Was that cannon from Joe, too?”

“Yes,” Methos admitted. “Loaded with silver bullets. God knows where he found it. Has to be a relic. But it is newly cleaned and oiled. And now, I’m a lot less sure this is a Halloween trick and a lot more sure that Joe believes in therianthropy.”

“Who would have the resources to link the Oro Rico cabin to a bartender in Seacouver?" MacLeod asked. The local tradesmen don’t know Joe.”

“You’re a barfly, he’s a bartender, it’s the second oldest professional relationship in the world.” Methos tolerated MacLeod’s poke to the ribs, and did not stab him back. “You made a multinational mad when you won the mine. And that Peterbilt attracted attention back east. Mining monopolies have notoriously poor senses of humor.”

“And too much money and too many tentacles. They probably ran the Peterbilt VIN number.”

“It makes strategic sense for them to investigate and weaken your allies before they make a more direct move on you. They compromise your allies, corrupt your friends, slide in the backdoor of your base of operations. Pwned.”

“So they target Joe, but Joe gets away.” MacLeod thought on that. “The bar is too exposed, Joe knows they might come back and someone else might get hurt. So he leaves us a warning, and makes a strategic retreat to the cabin, to button it down against intruders. Joe doesn’t know the satlink is down, and can’t get out word.”

“There is a good possibility he is under siege. Or taken. Or turned. After all, if he drove up there safely, he could drive back out back to cell phone service and leave a message. Go to a library and email. Hell, mail a letter.”

“Mail a letter where? Mac and Methos, Missouri River?” 

“Going dark has it’s drawbacks,” Methos admitted. “In the old days, I’d leave a message with my favorite bartender. Works great until the bartender goes AWOL.”

“We’ve no word of trouble from the roof contractors.” MacLeod veered toward the optimistic analysis. “And there’s no extortion demand. Whoever stalked Joe may not expect us.” 

Methos had been born before the invention of optimism. “Not yet. That we know of. We’ve been offline. What if the attack only seemed unsuccessful? Worst case analysis, they found a way to turn Joe into one of them. And Joe’s prostheses won’t shapeshift with the rest of his body.”

“If it comes to that, we’ll protect him until he changes back. But that won’t happen.”

“Joe didn’t add the silver bullets for show and tell.”

“I am not going to shoot Joe,” MacLeod declared with his first hint of real anger. “He resisted before, he’ll win that battle again.”

Methos fell silent. The moon was nearly full. There was a reason Joe had addressed the box of silver-tipped weapons to Methos, alone. It had nothing to do with optimism.

 

*******6*******

 

“Any last minute requests for stocking the larder before we hit the mountains? We’ll be ringing in the Yule soon after we find Joe,” MacLeod asked the next afternoon as they hit the Flathead Valley going north and east. His warrior instinct was waxing, his mood much improved, but he was too experienced to neglect long term logistics. Overnight he’d repacked every corner of the Tacoma with gear and supplies, but there was was still room in the Thule pod on top for extra holiday victuals, and the Scot did not believe in wasted cargo space.

“Shop as if we have a hungry werewolf to feed,” Methos recommended. “But do it fast, we need to get there by dark.” He rattled off an assortment of ancient grains, beans, protein. Lots of protein. He didn’t recommend turkey. MacLeod’s recent careful recontact with Little Deer’s tribe had stirred a deep antipathy toward colonial holidays. Methos, on the other hand, didn’t want anyone he knew to choke on the bones.

MacLeod stopped at the last Good Food outlet before the national park. “I still think there’s an outside possibility the werewolf theory might be an elaborate practical joke. After all, Joe left right after Halloween, and he was probably irked we didn’t check in. All our real evidence is in this box, or based on Sam’s word.”

“Joe isn't prone to joking about demonology," Methos reminded. "But we can throw in a Hammer Film dvd from the cheap bin to lighten the mood. No harm in throwing in some new books and music, too,” Methos recommended as they power shopped through media. “The political clime is making me very twitchy. Online monopolies make censorship a matter of a keystroke, and the virtual version of book burning is only a matter of time.”

“You're missing NetFlix, aren't you? We both saw the trend, we underestimated the speed. This is not our first tango with tipping points.” MacLeod said, tossing in two frozen packages of edamame as they cruised through greens. Methos tossed them back out again in the next aisle when MacLeod wasn’t looking and added four cans of cherries and five packages of dried nori.

“After we make sure Joe is safe,” MacLeod kept his voice lowered on the way to beverage section, “we accelerate the plan for securing the well, the power, and the new underground communications grid. And we’ll start an indoor garden under the skylights.”

“One does fall back on one’s early siege mentalities in times of chaos,” Methos affirmed, grabbing another basket to troll through the high altitude seed supply on the way to out. “What does the Scoutmaster always say?”

“ ‘Be Prepared,’ ” MacLeod admitted wryly, adding, “Because, ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.’ ”

“I did.” Methos protested. “I expected it all over the place. Cervantes was my hero at the time. Especially after they jailed him. I wrote screeds, posted missives, started public house discussions…”

“And how did that go?” MacLeod asked. “Bar fights for diversity?”

“Not as well as you might expect,” Methos reminisced. “I would just as soon skip the equivalent of solitary in the Alcala this century. Let’s stock the wine cellar, instead.”

“Let’s.”

 

*******7*******

 

There was a new warning on the gate to the mine. “Avalanche Danger. Do Not Enter.” MacLeod and Methos looked at each other. It hadn’t been there when they left. They both stepped out slowly, and started searching for sign.

“What are the tracks telling you, MacLeod?” Up to his knees in two feet of snow, Methos stood on the berm near the gate scanning for enemies on the ridge as dusk approached. Animal tracks of all sizes crossed the open patches on the snowy slope. Dall sheep tiptoed the rocks, weasels skittered between bushes, and white rabbits looked for deep holes. An elk had kicked off a small avalanche in one ravine. But the large tracks that held MacLeod’s attention followed the mining road.

“Bigger than coyote, similar to wolf. But larger, and not quite right. The pacing is all wrong. Wolves don’t run like this.”

“I was hoping for four wheels, not four paws.”

“If Joe drove in, or out, it was before the last snow plow came through. The roofers cleared the road. I recognize the tread.”

“Enterprising of them,” Methos commented dryly. “Do you smell woodsmoke?”

MacLeod nodded. “Applewood.”

Methos surveyed the ridge. Winds had blown the rocky spine nearly clear, but snow cornices were building up under the ridgeline. “Do we sneak up on our own house? Or drive in like we own the place?” 

MacLeod followed Methos’ gaze, taking in the relatively snowless ridge, charting a path. “Maybe both. I’ll toss you for the backcountry skis.”

Methos appropriated the Tacoma on the grounds that he was the eldest, and further, because MacLeod was a warped Highlander and actually liked to ski. In ten minutes, he had unloaded and donned Telemarks and climbing skins, boots, poles, hat, and windproof, with a sling for his katana. 

“How long do you need to get into position above the house?” Methos asked, squinting against the setting sun. “The moon rises within the hour.”

MacLeod studied the terrain. “Thirty, thirty-five minutes, if the wind-packed cornices hold.”

“They’d better hold, then. I’m not digging you out until spring if you go and bury yourself.” Methos said. “Here, don’t forget this.” He handed MacLeod a silver-bladed kukri. “Do you want the gun? It might be more effective from high ground.”

“No,” MacLeod said, though he tucked the kukri away in the pouch of his windproof. “Remember what I said. Don’t shoot Joe.”

“Actually, you said, ‘I am not going to shoot Joe’. But I get your drift. The trouble is, under a full moon, will we be able to tell wolf from foe?”

 

*******8*******

 

Methos crept around a turn in the road, keeping the engine revolutions down and the lights off to minimize vibration and maximize stealth. Zipfelbergers were blowing whirling ice spicules off the ridge to build up cornices on the southeastern slopes above the road. Successive wet snowfalls on a dry cold base, followed by high wind...let the slab avalanches begin.

Methos didn’t like to ski, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He’d lived in enough mountains to read a slope, and he counted the snow plow crew very lucky to get home safe. A touch of dynamite, maybe a bit of C4 would settle the snow. But that wouldn’t be discreet. Still, he wished he’d had the wisdom to hoard some dynamite. He and MacLeod could set off avalanches with remote charges like the original miners, and keep the world out til spring thaw, if needed. Much better than a moat.

The road widened, and the cabin and hoist came into view. Almost there. That was good. No sign of Joe’s car. That was bad. Very bad. Methos paused the truck and looked east, toward Chief Mountain. The top arc of the perigee moon edged over it’s long, flat crest.

He glanced at the ridge, but there was no sign of MacLeod. Ideally, he was staying well hidden off the skyline and working his way down the gentler slope through the trees beyond the cabin. A humpy cornice had formed directly over the steep face of the Oro Rico mine entrance. Miners in the past would have cleared it with TNT charges. Methos hoped MacLeod would choose the wiser but slower path through the trees the ridge.

But it was fated that wisdom was not going to carry the day. Two figures appeared in the dark eaves of the woods at the far end of the flats, waving, as if in need. One was upright, one was hunched. Two humans? One human? Could one be Joe? No. No cane. No silver mane. Methos had irrationally convinced himself that Werewolf Joe would automatically come with a shiny silver pelt.

The figures were looking less and less human as the seconds passed. He'd caught them in mid-transformation. "Carpe Diem," Methos declaimed to himself. In his books, the gloves were off. Methos accelerated, playing his scripted part in coming to the rescue. Just as he entered the flat, a movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. A misshapen figure had stepped onto the road behind him, blocking his way back to the highway. 

Methos hit the brakes, fishtailing on the fresh snow, then put the Tacoma in reverse, keeping the figure behind him square in the mirror. The yellow eyes were too large, the snout too curved, the fur too patchy to be called a handsome beast. But it had nice, shiny claws and very quick reflexes. Just before Methos center-punched it with the back bumper, it sprang, landing on the Thule pod on top of the pickup cap, scraping and scrabbling for purchase.

Methos hit the brakes again, and the werewolf lost hold and tumbled over the cab to land on the hood. Staring through the windshield, up close and personal, it was no handsomer. Methos accelerated again to keep it off balance, aiming the truck directly for the other two beasts.

One seemed to be holding something, with difficulty, trying to point it up the hill. Where was MacLeod? Methos didn’t want to accidentally squish him under the truck. That would be inconvenient for both of them. 

The werewolf digging gouges in the hood was making it hard to see what the others were trying to do. Scrabbling in Joe’s box for a weapon, Methos again braked to a halt, stalling the truck. He pulled out the six gun and shot through the windshield. The werewolf tumbled off the hood in front of the Tacoma. Methos dropped the gun and cupped his ears as they healed--the antique gun's close quarters report did real damage.

There was a sudden warning bark from the wood. Methos glanced up, and saw MacLeod pop out from under the cover of one of the solar panels, sacrificing stealth for speed. He pushed over the ridge, ski tips floating on the fresh powder as he turned between the limber pines. MacLeod traversed, then turned, then traversed again, feet light on the unstable slope. A dozen more turns, and he would have high ground and a flanking position just above the remaining pair, as if they’d planned it.

But even short-term theory in the art of war rarely outlasted contact with the enemy. The werewolf at the end of the drive waved once more at the hill. A deep whoomph centered on the ridge above, echoing through the peaks, rattling the Tacoma. The line of icy cornices liquefied as the vibrations from the explosion spread. Thousands of tons of snow flowed down the hill, rumbling like a freight train. MacLeod was in the center of its path.

Methos tried to keep sight of MacLeod’s wind jacket, but the cloud of snow chased and nipped at him like a living thing. With every meter MacLeod gained speed, but so did the slide, pushing a huge gust of wind ahead of the snowmass. MacLeod disappeared in the fog of snowflakes rushing ahead of the grinding wall of snow.

Methos didn’t even have time to restart the truck. The leading edge of the slide pushed beneath the undercarriage, flipping the truck on its side, and pushed it across the flats like a Tonka toy. When the noise stopped, Methos didn’t know which way was up, and snow crushed in every window in the cab.

Methos pushed back with hand, and elbow, and even his head as the snow intruded. "Next time, I swear, MacLeod, we're building in Bali."

 

*******9*******

 

MacLeod felt the vibration of the charges going off before he heard them, and immediately turned his skis downhill. The delicate lattice of layered snow collapsed across the slope, creating a feeling of free fall under his skis. If he managed to stay upright, he’d crash hard into the flats. If he angled too much to the side, the slide might take him down before he reached the treeline. Racing the avalanche, he took the middle way, and aimed straight for the two werewolves sheltering at the edge of the flat. 

He hit the transition from steep to flat at nearly sixty miles an hour, outrunning the edge of the slide, exploding into the pair of werewolves. One narrow telemark ski tip impaled the first werewolf directly in the chest. It's jaws snapped at the splintered wood, then stilled. Momentum pitchpoled MacLeod into his companion, katana scything away through the air as they crashed headlong. As the edge of the slide petered out around them, MacLeod rolled and kicked off his skis. His katana was buried in the yard sale of poles, hat, gloves, snow and shattered gear.

The final werewolf had already regained his feet, and crooned at his disarmed foe, swaying from paw to paw. And leapt.

 

*******10********

 

Something was scratching at the window. It was dead dark under the pressing avalanche. Methos had cleared an air pocket around his head and shoulders, but the snow had solidified around him. Joe’s box of old weapons was out of reach. The gun was buried somewhere under his legs. And the air pocket was definitely running out of air.

The scratching was very annoying. It stopped for a brief time, then the sound redoubled in fury. A small sliver of light appeared at his left shoulder. Now he knew which way was up. And something was coming to get him.

“Wake up! Are you coming out of there, or do you want to stay til spring?” MacLeod called impatiently. He was using the kukri to dig away the snow around the driver’s side window. It still had traces of blood streaking the haft and silver inlay.

Methos had to hack himself loose from the cemented snow with the kukri, then delayed further to chisel out the gun and his sword. MacLeod finally hauled Methos out of the buried cab of the Tacoma by the back of his jacket, more energetically than gently.

Methos caught his breath, and surveyed the wreckage above the truck--snow jumbled to twenty feet, mixed with boulders and tree trunks from the slope above. The mining hoist with it’s critical well housing had miraculously avoided being smashed by just a few feet. “You sniffed me out of all this mess how?”

“Predators. I saw something digging. Perhaps a wolf. A real one. But the light is bad, and for all I know, it was a lynx or a cougar. Whatever it was, I gambled that you smelled tasty.”

"It certainly wasn't the edamame," Methos dug some snow out from under his collar. "No sign of Joe?"

"No movement from the cabin at all," MacLeod said tersely, and pointed at the bathroom window over on the side of the cabin, partly ajar. Animal tracks marked the snow underneath. “They must have forced it to get in.”

“The fire has been recently stoked.” Methos and MacLeod stepped to either side of the cabin door, their recovered swords unsheathed. MacLeod slowly and silently unlocked the deadbolt. Methos nudged a spot of blue color, out of place on the snowy threshold. “Is that a flower?” he whispered

“Looks like blue rocket. It grows up here. Poisonous.” MacLeod looked at Methos. “Also known as aconitum.”

Methos nodded. “Or wolfsbane.”

“Some legends say the plant will repress the change,” MacLeod contributed, searching his memory. Legends were the staff of life in the Highlands.

“Others say it will trigger the appearance of the wolf,” Methos countered. “What’s your latest source, besides Harry Potter?”

MacLeod shrugged. “Hammer Films?”

Methos shrugged back. “And there I was going to go with Ginger Snaps Unleashed. We need to fix the internet.” 

MacLeod bared his teeth. “Right after we make Ginger give us Joe.”

 

********11*******

 

The first thing Methos and MacLeod saw when they crashed into the cabin were books. Books on the counter. Books on the sofa. Books covering the massive dining table. Methos groaned. The mangy villains had molested his books.

MacLeod grimaced when he saw that Joe’s prostheses had been shoved under the dining room table with his guitar case. Chairs were moved against the back wall. The rug was stretched on the back of the sofa. There were pawprints on the kitchen floor. Really big pawprints. 

But the room was empty of shapeshifters. MacLeod slid silently to the window and checked the deck while Methos prowled up the stair to check the second floor. MacLeod hissed, calling Methos back when he registered the soft sound of running water. Abruptly, it ceased. Approaching from opposite angles, they vectored in on the main floor bath, tucked into the corner beyond the stove.

MacLeod and Methos stood on each side of the door, swords drawn.

“Washing off blood?” MacLeod ventured in a whisper.

“Hiding evidence,” Methos concurred, “Or just hiding. They didn’t expect their side to lose.” 

There was a ticking sound, and the door cracked open, and swung wide, letting out a cloud of clean steam. A figure armed with only with a fuzzy red towel and a battered green bathrobe shot through the gap, wheelchair plowing straight for the arc of the Immortals’ crossed blades.

MacLeod pulled the katana straight up, avoiding a blow by many inches. Methos pivoted as he turned his heavier blade and nicked the doorframe rather than Joe’s carotid in passing.

Joe arched and halted the wheels, freezing in his tracks as he saw the swords flash before his eyes. “Jeezus, give a guy a heart attack, will you?” There was an understandable hitch in his diction, since he’d nearly sucked his adam’s apple into his vocal cords. Which was far better than the alternative.

“What the hell were you doing in there, Joe?” Adam demanded, dancing back a step, his sword still at the ready. 

“Showering? Shaving? Starving?” Joe offered in multiple choice, talking a little too quickly. He straightened the frayed sleeves of the green bathrobe like the cuffs of a tuxedo, and wrapped the red towel around his neck, coming perilously close to resembling a cranky elf. “Did you bring snacks? I could eat a horse. I didn’t mean to overstay the invitation. I was under the impression you were coming back in late November. You never call, you never write...”

“We were under the impression that something had eaten you,” Methos came perilously close to snarling. 

MacLeod smoothly interposed. “I’m sorry the journey ran long, Joe. There was need, and I felt I had to stay,” he said simply, from the heart, apologizing for them both, but taking full responsibility. He pushed Methos’ sword down so it pointed at the floor. “No shooting, remember? No skewering, either.” For good measure he slipped the gun with the five silver bullets out of Methos’ pocket, putting it in the bread basket. All three of them were badly shaken, and trying badly not to show it. "You do look like you've lost weight," he added in a worried tone.

“I was just joking about the horse,” Joe said, waving off the concern, still in the denial part of processing his close shave. He looked at Methos. “Keep the gun if you don’t believe me.”

“Maybe you prefer sheep?” Methos had progressed well beyond denial, but had ratcheted down the urge to menace. “Silver bullets are a joke? Werewolves setting off dynamite in our yard is a joke? Being buried in an avalanche is a joke?” 

MacLeod shook his head and elected to let their tension play itself out. Stepping back out of the verbal firing line, he muttered, “Food. Food will settle them down.” He checked the refrigerator. Empty, but for Methos’ favorite beer. The avalanche surrounding the supplies in the Tacoma would have set in harder than concrete. Time to improvise.

Joe was on the defensive. “Okay, an avalanche I can believe, given you’re covered in snow from your collar to your fly, but dynamite is a little over the top, even knowing your track record. Hey, watch it, you’re dripping on the Topographica Hibernia.”

“It’s a reprint," Methos shot back, but he moved away from the book anyway. "And don’t change the subject.”

Joe helpfully threw him the towel, which Methos deftly ran through with the tip of his sword. “Okay, be that way. But don’t loom over the Britorum, either. Any werewolves still out there? Those guys are worse than door to door missionaries. I see you got my warning, or you wouldn’t have brought the gun.”

“Didn’t you watch the fight, Watcher?” Methos asked, narrowing his eyes, dropping the point of his sword again, but not sheathing it. “There are three bodies, and no place to permanently bury them till spring thaw. Or we can eat them, if you prefer?” Methos caught Joe's eyes, and dared him to lie.

“Ick. Damn. No, I was experimenting with that nifty shower doohickey you have in there over the hot tub, and I zoned out in the steam. Nice water pressure, by the way.” Joe held his gaze all the way through the answer, but looked away first, and spinning his wheelchair, moving around the room, straightening random objects. “What did I miss?”

“You missed the sight of Duncan MacLeod inventing a new form of warfare, death by telemark.” Methos stalked Joe as he wheeled around the great room, dodging the furniture, the books, and his questions. “Who are they? What did they want?”

“They found me here last week.” Joe said in a hard, more distant voice, as he toyed with a copy of the Mabinogeon. “They promised to save me from dying in the snow after the next full moon set. They even offered some sweet corporate perks if I left ‘my previous employ’ and took my ‘proprietary’ knowledge to them.”

“Very civilized.”

“They knew how much I owed on the bar. To the penny.”

"Very thorough." Methos also knew how much Joe owed, to the nickel or dime, but for different investment goals.

“A few ‘or elses’ started flying around, so I encouraged them with one of my three persuaders--do you know how hard it is to find silver buckshot?” He pointed at one shotgun well hidden behind the door, and another under the sofa. “The third is in the bathroom. I let off a round, and told them in no uncertain terms I wasn’t negotiating with minions.”

“And just like that, they went away?” Methos asked sharply, noting Joe was avoiding his gaze again.

“I had a bit of help from natural forces. The blizzard hit, and I didn’t see them for a week. I thought that the bad weather drove them off. As they so helpfully pointed out, it's gawdawful cold out there to be running around naked when the moon goes down and the fur drops off.”

“You left the window open,” Methos pointed at the bathroom.

“What are you, Perry Mason?” The window was all fogged from the shower, so I opened it for air, and spaced it.” Joe added reproachfully. "I'd think you'd be happy I took a shower, rather than smell like four week old goat."

Methos was glad, but he still pressed. “The avalanche? You didn’t feel the avalanche?”

“So that’s what that was. The rumbling sounded a lot like a snowplow. I was going to invite the boys in for coffee. I gave them grocery money.” Joe took a deep breath, held it, and released it in a calming sigh. “Okay, I see why you’re mad enough to drip melting snow all over your nice hardwood floor. Careful, dammit, that’s your personal handwritten copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The Latin is pretty heavy sailing with your penmanship. I have to say, by the way, Ovid's Lycaon isn’t one of my favorite lycanthropic role models.”

Methos looked down, as another drop of water manifested on the ancient leather cover. Quickly he bent and cradled the book in the towel. Joe really did sound concerned about the books, the floor, and even the guys running the snowplow. That narrowed down the number of subjects he was trying to avoid.

Because Joe was lying like a trooper about something. Given his sudden weight loss and a hint of fever gleam in his eye, Methos suspected he was still keeping something in about his health. He may have played his role at being bait a little too well. Methos glanced out the picture window, and back to Joe.

The full moon was now nearly twenty degrees up from the horizon, hanging like a pockmarked frisbee over Chief Mountain. Methos stared at Joe, sitting right in front of him, alive, fingernails trimmed for fretwork, and with only the normal amount of fur on cheek and chin.

Joe rolled right up to Methos and looked him in the eye. “Are you alright? You weren’t bitten, were you?”

“Never laid a finger on me,” Methos declared. 

“MacLeod, how about you?” Joe’s heightened anxiety was evident.

“We’re fine,” MacLeod reassured blandly from the kitchen. He’d scrounged a high cupboard for Boston bread and quinoa and organic chili. The lower cupboards were nearly bare. “We’ll have to dig the truck out tomorrow, though, if we want brunch,” he warned. “You and the roofing crew ate us out of most of the drygoods, and almost all the freezer stock."

"Our fault. We were late." MacLeod stood on his toes to see into the highest cubboard. "Didn't you clean out the shelving, Methos? Some of this stuff looks like it was canned in the Nixon administration.”

"Good times," Methos said airily. Waste not, want not."

MacLeod found a can of corned beef to stretch the chili, then looked more closely at the label. “When did they stop soldering the can opener to the bottom of the can in this neck of the woods? The turn of this century, or the last?”

Methos kept his eyes on Joe, ignoring MacLeod’s culinary sensitivities. “What about you, Joe?” he demanded. “Are you alright? All the way right?” He downshifted to his diagnostic voice, which was only slightly more harmless than his freaked by werewolves voice. “How much weight did you lose? How is your pain? You forgot your meds. I brought them in the car. We can dig them out.”

“Shhh, shush,” Joe hissed, glancing over at MacLeod. “Shut up about the meds, will you? I’m fine. In fact, I haven’t felt this good in years. Been here for a month, all I had to do was read, write songs, sleep, exercise, and wait for you guys to show up.”

“And eat,” MacLeod called from the kitchen, as he explored more empty cupboards. He tossed the undated corned beef into the bin. 

“Hey, that was breakfast!” Joe objected from across the room. 

MacLeod shuddered. “Not in my kitchen. We’d survive it, but would you?”

“Smelled just fine to me,” Joe grumbled under his breath. Restless, he rolled around the room, stacking some books in his lap and putting them back on the shelf in a distant semblance of Dewey order. Sighing, Methos started sorting and reshelving the books in Alexandrian order. He set aside an unrespectable pile of lycan lore someone had borrowed from the Seacouver library. “These are long overdue, you know. Librarians never forget.”

“Oh. Yeah. Those. I checked them out on your card, just in case you didn’t get the message I left in the box at the bar.” Joe had the grace to look sheepish. “Librarians are very reliable about overdue notices.”

“You forged my library card?” Methos was scandalized. “You’re paying the fines.”

“Out of your bar bill,” Joe shot back.

MacLeod smiled as he dosed his faux stew with a can of beer. Joe was not turning into a monster. Methos was hiding a proud smile. Normal bickering had recommenced. All was again well under the rooftree of Clan MacLeod.

**********12********

After changing into dry clothes, Methos picked up one of the new books Joe had brought on spirit channelling, opening it to a bookmark. “Viking shapeshifters retained their intelligence, donned animal skins and fell into deathlike trances while their animal spirit roamed abroad,” he read out loud. “In other cultures, shamans cast curses or poisoned darts, including aconitum, transforming hapless victims into ravening beasts, hunted by family and friends. In ancient Greece, Lycaon was turned into a wolf after angering Zeus by….” 

Methos snapped the book shut. “You’re right, Joe. Lycaon had it coming. He’s a lousy role model, even for a werewolf. So. Are you going to come clean on how and why you’re not out there right now howling at the moon?”

“Short version? I got lucky.” Joe looked over his shoulder at the rising lunar orb, then scooted over and bounced off his chair onto the sofa, settling in. “Longer version? Let’s talk transformation mythology. Shapeshifters transform to gain power or transform others to instill fear in enemies. Some obtain gain for themselves, like the berserkers, or power over others, like steppe wizards cursing their enemies to become beasts for the hunt. Some just rove the night, unfettered. The lunar cycle doesn’t even show up in most of the old myths--it is definitely tacked onto modern popular culture. But most have some sort of trigger, poison, or sympathetic magic, or bites, nearly all of which boil down to a biochemical vector.”

“It sounds like magical thinking is triggering your shapeshifters, not lunar orbital physics.”

Joe looked back at the moon. “Can’t knock it if it works. Lunacy in the old meaning of the word worked for them. Others don’t need a trigger at all. Just look at you and Mac. Shapeshifting fools, the two of you. Every time you fall off your bike and scrape your knee, or happen to find a knife in your gizzard, you reshape to your original Immortal template.”

“He’s got a point,” MacLeod said mildly, as he trimmed the edges off a forlorn cabbage he’d found abandoned in the crisper.

“Show me the bite,” Methos demanded, unfazed by mere pseudocryptophilosophical theory.

Joe reluctantly held out his hand, flipping it to show the healed bitemarks. “All better,” he announced, slipping the sleeve of his bathrobe back over the scars. “We drowned it in fair Irish whisky and added some sage incense and a Tibetan singing bowl. The multiculturalism abounded. But it didn’t get infected, so bonus, in my book. The moon is up and I’m still here.”

“Who is ‘we,’” MacLeod inquired from the peanut gallery as he stirred his concoction.

“Another musician, just passing through, another story for another day. Anyway, about these guys--I’ve had a month to think about this. They’ve been transformed. They have power. But it’s not enough. They’re looking for more. They are _hungry_ for more.”

“What are their names? Who do they work for?” Methos tried to stay on point.

“That’s the scariest part about them, their namelessness--they’re such small, greedy, malevolent tools.” Joe’s words were steeped in disgust. “I didn’t have much time for research into corporate shells before leaving town. And did you know your internet here is out? Thank god for your library, or I would have gone around the bend.”

“The jury is still out on that, Joe,” Methos warned. “Remember, you came close yourself to turning into one of those baskets of malevolence.”

“Don’t even go there. It isn’t something I’m likely to forget. And boy, don’t think I didn’t do a lot of magical thinking too, in the last four weeks. I had some wild dreams.”

Stirring the pot, MacLeod called from the kitchen, “What kind of dreams?” 

“Skimming across the snow, racing the shadow of a cloud. Snapping at a snowflake. The smell of elk foraging in the river bottom. Hey, don’t look at me like that,” he protested. “I was hungry.”

“Shapeshifting takes a lot of energy, I hear,” Methos sympathized. “What was your favorite dream shape?”

Joe let his gaze drift to the moon. “If I was going to pull a Lon Chaney, I’d want to go full wolf. A big, beautiful, silver-tipped grey wolf, four paws, no baggage.” Joe looked away, trying to hide a cold shiver. Not disgust. Horror. “I could have been dragging through the drifts on two paws.” Joe avoided their eyes, embarrassed by his confession. Gruffly he added, “Glad it didn’t turn out that way. But I trusted you both to know what to do.”

MacLeod came around the kitchen island and loaded another log on the fire. He paused by the sofa just long enough to squeeze Joe’s shoulder, then returned to dish out the stew. Words were not needed.

“So, the werewolf virus transmission vector isn’t bulletproof, as it were,” Joe coughed and returned to business, pulling the rug around his shoulders and staring into the fire. “Under certain conditions, whether it’s superfull moons, injections from Dr. Moreau, or gene-swapping furry parties, they believe they can spread their influence, or curse, on to others.”

“Most victims would be easy to co-opt while they panic in the aftermath,” Methos mused. “The don’t have your unique brand of bull-headedness,” he added fondly.

“Well, brush up on your bull, because I think their long game is starting to include turning immortals.” Joe stopped, letting them mull the idea.

Methos followed his chain of thought. “Whoever is behind this is diversifying. Experimenting with more talents. Splicing more genes. Grafting DNA.” 

“Then why try to curse you?” MacLeod asked, handing around the bowls of near chili, and three beers. 

Joe inhaled almost half the bowl before answering. “I think their part of their experiment on me was based on bad intel. You can laugh, but I got the distinct feeling that they thought I was supposed to be Immortal, too. They just kept standing out there on the edge of the flats, _watching_ me. Creeped me out.”

“Welcome to the club,” Methos said cheerily.

Joe didn't laugh. 

MacLeod nodded. “You’ve survived so many bullet holes over the years, their investigators probably drew the wrong conclusion.” 

“They may not even know about the Game. Or care. Trafficking immortality to mortals, now, that’s real money. Immortals are the elephant, and all these guys want is the tusk,” Joe said, scraping the bottom of his bowl.

“If they’re already convinced we’re immortal, we’re very lucky to have skipped the vivisection phase of the scientific method.” Methos put down his bowl, no longer hungry. 

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed. If they really knew the score, they’d have sent a couple of platoons of mercenaries for you two, not these moonlighting secret squirrels. You done?” At Methos’ nod, Joe snagged the rest of his leftovers and inhaled all but the cabbage before it went cold. Joe passed Methos his untouched beer in fair return.

MacLeod passed half of his bowl over to Joe without being asked, waving off Joe's halfhearted protest, and fetched more beer. They were all going to need the complex carbohydrates. “It sounds almost as if they were trying to catch Immortality like a cold, then patent and market themselves as carriers. Interesting business model. I don’t think they thought it through.”

“Yeah. Helluva thought, isn’t it? Immortal werewolves?”

“Immortality can’t be passed that way,” Methos objected. “Or any way,” he quickly added.

“Really?” You sure?” Joe leaned forward. “When was the last time you heard about a big time politician or corporate CEO having a heart attack? A stroke? Anything? We lose singers, writers, everyday people all the time. I go tits up, nobody would blink, it’s natural. But the real movers and shakers behind the scenes at the top of the food chains? Funerals are not happening. We’re not getting new blood. Cheney? Rumsfeld? Henry Fucking Kissinger? What’s going on?”

“Human growth hormone, health hacks, …” Methos trailed off, thinking. “There’s Steve Job,” he finally pointed out. “He’s dead.”

“Maybe he’s the exception that proves the rule. Or maybe he perfected the genetic splice and is starting over as a teenager, inventing transporters or warp drive or something. We need more data. But I bet the insurance company actuarial tables for all the one percenters worldwide are totally off the charts.”

“You do know this sounds like a massive fake news conspiracy theory, Joe,” Methos warned.

“Yeah. Like werewolves in Seacouver. Just a theory.”

 

*********13*********

 

They talked long into the night, MacLeod and Methos making a respectable dent in the beer, while Joe mysteriously stuck to a Goji berry tea. But Joe began to nod as the moon rose, and the conversation comfortably lapsed.

MacLeod brought in more firewood, and Joe roused as a stream of cold air seeped in from the deck. “I forgot to get you a present for your Solstice celebration next week.”

“No need. We thought it best to skip the party this year--it is getting more difficult for everyone to travel without burning an identity,” MacLeod said. “Companionship and a cup, who needs more? But maybe I’ll get you a new robe. That one looks like it’s been through the wars.”

“Probably has been. It’s one of your old ones. I packed light,” Joe apologized. “Shame about the party. I do miss Amanda. But just as well she stays off this particular radar scope.”

“One last thing that bothers me, Joe. What happened to your Jeep?” Methos asked. 

“I lent it to Oz. The musician I mentioned,” Joe yawned, as if it had been a sawbuck, or a six-pack rather than his only transportation. “I knew you guys were on the way, and he had a sudden pressing need to go to Cleveland.”

“Nobody has a pressing need to go to Cleveland,” Methos said sternly. He diagnosed that Joe was still hiding something, but not feeling particularly guilty about it. And he still hadn’t touched a single beer, despite Methos' claim he was neglecting a major food group.

“I know, right? But we need allies everywhere, even in Cleveland,” Joe laughed, merry with a full belly and nearly clean conscience. “Oz helped me out of a jam. He made me reevaluate a few things.”

He drew in a deep lungful of air, hiding another yawn. “I’ve been thinking about selling the Jeep, anyway. And the bar. Upgrade to a nice van or one of those tiny mobile houses. Retire from the Watchers and go on the road.”

Methos was horrified. “Joe, you know tiny houses are just a propaganda ploy to diminish lifestyle expectations for whole generations. Cable TV snake oil. The Watchers would set you up in style in one of their beachside condo residence research centers in Geneva or Uruguay or Australia. For life.” Methos had made absolutely sure the Watchers would do exactly that if Joe enquired on his own, with fair warning of the consequences of failure.

“That black snake, it slithers everywhere, and I don’t like where the Watchers are poised,” Joe’s smile had a touch of sadness. “Retirement’s a good cover, right? I’ll fit right into the tiny hobo jungle. Maybe I can channel my inner Woody Guthrie and write a protest song or two, while the New Pinkertons chase me from trailer park to trailer park.”

“It’s a good cover,” MacLeod agreed softly. “Better than ours,” he added, gazing around his new cabin with opened eyes. Skylights. Power. Warmth. Exclusivity. Privilege. And werewolves at the door. “You know our home is always yours, wherever we are in the world.”

“And my beer is always your beer. Oh, wait, that was already in the contract,” Joe grinned.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Methos gave him a phantom toast. “Our hearth is yours.”

Joe yawned again, more widely than before. “Listen, full moon or not, high altitude still puts me to sleep early. I’m going to brush my teeth and crash on the sofa." He waved aside MacLeod's protest. "Me and this sofa and fuzzy rug have come to a happy understanding the last four weeks. Don't break us up now. You boys have fun with strategy. I won’t hear a thing after my eyes close.” Without dragging out goodnights, Joe rolled into the bathroom, closing the door.

“Is that what the kids call it these days, MacLeod, ‘strategy’?” Methos asked softly.

“We’ll test a few fresh tactics and see,” MacLeod promised, “But hospitality first.” Methos pretended to straighten the kitchen, cracking another beer as he watched him work. MacLeod built Joe a new nest with some fresh pillows and linens and blankets from the closet upstairs, and banked the fire.

 

*********14*********

 

The full moon at zenith filled MacLeod’s new skylight in the master bedroom. “What do you think of those tactics?” Methos grinned and stole the quilt as MacLeod collapsed on the mattress, breathing hard. The light shining in from above painted MacLeod’s body in moonshadow.

“Lethal. You killed me dead.” MacLeod’s skin pebbled as a draft trickled down from above, and he burrowed under the comforter next to Methos.

“I told you skylights were a bad idea,” Methos said, his words muffled under a doubled layer of down stuffing.

“You told me so,” MacLeod agreed, nestling into the warmth.

“Do you know what I think is a good idea?” Methos wove his legs over MacLeod’s, pulling him closer. “A party. You should throw a Solstice party to end them all. We need to bring our allies together, and chart a long term course. There are shoals in the decades ahead, Highlander.”

“We do need Amanda,” MacLeod drowsily agreed. “If only to help keep an eye on Joe. I think he’s planning to start a revolution all by himself.”

“The Tiny House Rebellion. He could start with worse armies. Or, I should say, we could. I think he's already drafted us.”

“What will be our battle hymn?” MacLeod laughed.

“There’s an old seventies song by Krokus. From my metal band era. I’ll teach Joe the lyrics.” Methos grinned wickedly. “Eat the rich.”

“Subtle. I like it,” MacLeod shifted his weight, his thoughts more on tactics than talk. He was already planning a sneak attack. But before he could launch his newly marshaled forces, the clear, high belling call of a wolf sent him bolt upright, reaching for his sword. A more distant chorus answered sweetly from the forests above Kintla.

Methos tweaked a small gap in the quilt to admire the Highlander’s stance. “Very pretty, MacLeod. Look out for the parts that dangle.”

“That was very close by.”

“Come back to bed,” Methos protested. “You don’t have any sheep in the fold. That is a real wolf pack. I’ve heard a few in my day. They probably travelled from Chief Mountain, as you said. Or another pack is forming, finding a new home here.”

“Still, I’m going to check on Joe,” MacLeod slid softly off the bed and silently opened the door. He moved to the top of the stair, and looked down on the moonwashed room. A tiny flicker of fire danced in the wood stove, adding a yellow gleam of friendly warmth and the scent of summer apples in the winter night. With a long-suffering sigh, Methos padded to the rail beside him, shifting his feet on the cold stairs as he looked down. The parts that dangled were no longer quite so frisky in the night air.

Joe had curled up on his side under just the sheets and a blanket when the fire was still blazing. Now that the stove had burned down to coals, he’d also appropriated the antique fur rug in his sleep. Just the tip of his nose stuck out past the edge of the skin. Coals settled in the grate. MacLeod could hear no other sound. Not a breath.

“Have you heard of the Irish werewolf, Methos? The Conroicht?” MacLeod whispered.

“Topographica Hibernia also speaks of the Faoladh,” Methos murmured.

MacLeod nodded. “Fearless guardians of children, the wounded, and the lost.”

Methos shook his head. “My, what a long nose you have, Joe.”

 

********15********

 

A large grey wolf with frosted muzzle and silvery points loped across the buried mouth of the Oro Rico mine, leaping easily over the tumbled trees and dislodged boulders in the avalanche path. He paused once, at the edge of the forest. His nose told him three bodies lay cached below the snow under the unforgiving stars. They stank of sulfur. The wolf snorted, clearing his scent glands. He contemptuously marked the spot and gave the kill a wide berth.

Moving in a mile-eating stride, the wolf climbed the scarred slope now scraped bare of snow, ruffling his fur against the searing cold, heart hammering with the sheer elation of running. Slowing to a trot, he topped out on the ridge marking the headwaters of the Kintla. The moon betrayed all movement on the terrain below, prey or foe.

It was a dream, he knew. His true body lay below, cozened by furs and four walls and hearthfire. His rational mind was as clear on that fact as the constellations blinking in the frosted sky. But unlike the pale passing wisps of normal dreams, these visions grew ever more real as they spun on. 

He sat down to chew a stinging ice ball from between his claws. Hunger pains pricked his belly. The air was sharp and sweet with the scent of pine and nervous rabbits. Far to the east, a juvenile pack raised a lament, mourning the loss of their alpha. The dirge tugged at his heart, and sent him pacing higher on the mountain above, catching scent of mountain sheep, cougar, unsociable wolverine.

One day, perhaps, he would run too fast, too far, and that part of him that slept safe by the fire might become the dream. But not yet. He raised his head, breath smoking in the still, frigid air, and howled into the night for the pure joy of it.

Below in the cozy confines of the cabin, Methos pulled MacLeod back to the warm folds of the bed, as the song of the wolf rang out over the wilderness under the Long Night Moon.

 

 

*******end*********


End file.
